


Prison ain't for the weak

by ApoplecticAtPeace



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Broken Bones, But then he gets better, Dream Whump, Dream gets BEAT, Gen, Graphic Description, Past Abuse, Prison, Violence, Whump, tommy dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 22:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApoplecticAtPeace/pseuds/ApoplecticAtPeace
Summary: “How was it?”Green, green everywhere, and fists hitting him over and over again, until he was limp on the floor, bare feet coming down, a heel breaking his nose, and more fists, and he couldn’t breathe-“Tommy?”-------Or: is anyone else interested in how Sam found out that Tommy was dead? Dream wasn't expecting Sam to be quite this...protective.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	Prison ain't for the weak

“What was it like?”

Tommy was blinking awake. His previously empty head filling with thoughts, and his back aching from the hot, jagged surface beneath him. He had felt so calm… where was he again? It was so hot…

The haze of his vision settled, and he finally made out the figure reclined a few metres away against the wall and the cauldron.

“How was it?”

Green, green everywhere, and fists hitting him over and over again, until he was limp on the floor, bare feet coming down, a heel breaking his nose, and more fists, and _he couldn’t breathe-_

“Tommy?”

“Fuck you,” Tommy rasped out, gasping and coughing to one side, forearms held protectively in front of his face. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you-”

“Come on now…”

Tommy coughed and gasped one last time, and finally wrenched his eyes off the floor and to Dream’s stupid face. His brown jumpsuit was knotted at his waist, and his white vest was grey with dirt and…

“What the fuck happened to you?” Tommy asked, raking his eyes over Dream’s battered appearance.

Dream scoffed, turning away so his split lip, broken nose and black eye were only visible from the side. Now Tommy was looking, he was holding himself strangely… a broken rib? And his arms and body were littered with cuts.

“Turns out even you can put up a fight,” he said, sounding so nonchalant. “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember…?”

Finally feeling a little in control of himself, Tommy looked around the cell. The bars separating the lava from the cell were up, so neither of them could get close to the lava. There was also blood on the floor… a lot of blood. He suddenly felt sick at the thought that it was all his.

 _Well_ , he thought, glancing at the dried blood on Dream’s face, _mostly_ _his_. Inside he cheered himself that even as Dream was beating him to death, he managed to get a few good hits in.

Wait, where were his own wounds? He grabbed his head, feeling for the wounds he knew were there, had _felt_ were there, and his chest and stomach, remembering the bruises so vividly. But the only pain he was feeling was in his back from where he was lying against the jagged obsidian.

“What the fuck happened to me?” he asked, getting to his feet and standing over Dream. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“I brought you back,” Dream said, something in his voice that raised Tommy’s arm hairs. “Won’t you thank me?”

“Thank you? You fucking killed me! You beat me to fucking death with your fists!”

“And then I brought you back,” Dream said calmly. “I told you I could.”

Dream hadn’t moved from the floor, looking so self-satisfied. Seeing red, Tommy landed a weak kick to Dream’s face, sending the man’s head clanging against the cauldron.

Immediately, Tommy felt sick. Dream had beaten him to death, but Dream didn’t have any shoes or proper clothes on, and at the moment looked a hell of a lot worse than Tommy felt. And the idea that Tommy could be doing the same things as Dream…

He backed away, the bounce from the slam against the cauldron leaving Dream leaning on his other side on the floor, gasping broken breaths, with one hand at his ribs and one at his face.

“When did the bars come up?” Tommy asked, feeling the metal against his spine as he backed away. He leaned on them, grateful to have anything other than obsidian as the walls. “Was Sam here?”

Dream, who had rolled himself off his side and was leaning heavily on his cut forearms, gave him a strange look. “What do you mean? It was always like this.”

“No. No, you’re doing that thing again, aren’t you,” Tommy said, guilt about hitting him fading already.

“What thing?” Dream asked innocently.

“The thing where you try and make me doubt myself. You trick me into thinking I’m crazy.”

“Well, maybe you are,” Dream said, “after all, Sam hasn’t been here. And you did just die,” he pointed out.

“That’s true,” Tommy muttered to himself. “It has been months. Wait, if it’s been months how come your wounds are so fresh?”

Dream looked at him strangely, but it seemed different. “What do you mean it’s been months?”

“I mean, you killed me ages ago, I’ve been dead for months.”

“Tommy…” something akin to wonder was crossing Dream’s face, “it’s only been a few hours. Less than a day.”

“No, you’re gaslighting me again, like Wilbur said,” Tommy said stubbornly. “It’s been months.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Dream said. “Sam hasn’t even been around. Where else would I get all these cuts from?”

“I dunno, maybe you just like throwing yourself against walls? Maybe you’re lying that Sam hasn’t been around. Although Sam wouldn’t do something like this.” The last part was muttered under his breath.

Dream rolled his eyes. In the back of Tommy’s mind, he wondered how often Dream did that back when he still had his mask. Probably as much, maybe even more than Wilbur. And Wilbur made no secret of how annoying he found Tommy.

“But seriously, what was it like?” Dream asked again, now struggling to his feet, still clutching his ribs. “Go on, tell me.”

“When will Sam come back?” Tommy asked, changing the subject.

“You heard him, a week,” Dream said. “Tell me what it was like.”

Tommy gave in and told him, hoping beyond hope that this week would pass quickly, and he could escape this cloying cell trapped with Dream.

It would only be a week. He could survive a week. He survived more than that back in Logstedshire, however miserable. The only difference was that here, there was no day or night, nothing to do, only potatoes to eat. And no clock to tell the time.

It would only be a week.

Almost three weeks later, Sam came back.

As he escorted the starving child from where he had been sitting on top of the chest – the coveted most comfortable spot in the cell – he couldn’t help but land a savage backhand across Dream’s face, giving them time to get onto the moving platform and for Ant to retract it.

Tommy didn’t look back at the cell, eyes locked on the new, different surroundings, but Sam did. Dream was sitting up, watching them glide away, cheek cut from Sam’s rings, but with a look on his face that clearly showed glee. Cunning.

Sam replaced the lava quicker than he ever had before, offering steak and bread to Tommy, who devoured them ravenously.

“Thanks, big man,” Tommy said, stuffing the rest in his pockets and inventory, “that was the longest week of my life.”

Sam frowned. “Tommy, you were… that was three weeks. Almost three weeks since you died. We all thought you were dead.”

“What? And you just fucking left me?” Tommy shrieked. “You left me in there with Dream…”

His voice was shaking.

“Tommy… we all thought you were dead,” Sam replied. “Dream told me you were dead. I went, and you weren’t there. Not even a body.”

“Dream told me you hadn’t visited.”

“What else did he tell you?”

Tommy shrunk into himself, wrapping his arms around himself. “He told me that it was only a week. That it felt like longer because nothing changed. That he knew because he’d been there for months. That you hadn’t visited and didn’t care.”

Sam felt his heart break. “Come on, Tommy, let’s get you your stuff. I’ll take you home.”

Behind Tommy’s back, and his delight at having his stuff returned to him, Sam let his face darken. He wanted to break the Dream’s ribs all over again. Maybe he would, once Tommy was gone.

* * *

Sam heard screaming, and a rhythmic thumping. He was deep inside the redstone of the walls around the cell, checking that everything was functioning still after the explosions. Which he _still_ didn’t know who was responsible for.

He only needed to listen for less than a second before he sprung into action, clawing himself out of the little hole that was his entrance and exit from the machinery.

Those weren’t Dream’s screams. Sam knew what Dream’s cries of pain sounded like, and if he heard them while anyone was visiting the prison… too bad. It _was_ a prison for the worst criminals.

But this was Tommy. And Tommy had already been abused enough. By this very man, and for a period or weeks where everyone else ignored him. Pretended he didn’t exist. That maybe they could excuse themselves of whatever was happening.

Sam ran to the entrance, blocked by the wall of lava, and reached for the lever that would retract the lava.

Something stayed his hand, hovering over the lever. Tommy did sign a contract. What if Dream was planning this? Dream knew that Sam was fond of the boy. Was this the push Dream needed to escape?

The thumps and cries stopped. Sam pulled the lever.

The thirty seconds it took for the lava to retract felt like the longest thirty seconds of his life. He had no idea what to expect.

Finally, the lava was gone, and Sam could see across the chasm. From his vantage point, he could see Dream, standing still in the centre of the cell, staring straight at Sam. He couldn’t see Tommy.

 _But that doesn’t mean anything_ , he told himself. Tommy could be hiding. Maybe Sam just didn’t see him.

The flying bridge was ten torturously long seconds, and as he approached, he couldn’t see Tommy anywhere.

He stepped off the platform and marched menacingly towards Dream. “Where is Tommy?” he demanded.

“Not even a hello?” Dream replied light-heartedly.

Sam growled and shoved him backwards. “I’m not in the mood for your games. Where is he?”

Dream shrugged, a small smile on his face. “Can you see him?”

Not waiting any longer, Sam turned around and backhanded Dream across the face. His netherite gauntlet made a sickening crack as it connected with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards. “Where. Is. Tommy,” he asked, towering above Dream, gripping the front of Dream’s vest.

Dream stared up at Sam, not a shred of fear despite everything. He held Sam’s gaze, not once glancing at the sword in Sam’s hand.

Then he looked towards the lava.

Sam’s hand went slack. “No,” he whispered.

“You wouldn’t believe if I told you he jumped?”

Sam’s hand was shaking with rage. Almost against his will, he let go of Dream’s shirt, letting the man fall to the floor. Whole body trembling, Sam closed his eyes, fists and jaw clenched.

Dream looked him up and down, a hint of fear finally crossing his face.

“Come on now,” Dream said, a little bit nervously, “don’t tell me you haven’t wanted to do the same thing.”

Quick as a flash Sam grabbed Dream by his hair – grown long from the months inside the cell – and dragged him to the front of the cell, where it dropped into lava. Still shaking, and powered by adrenaline, he thrust Dream out, holding him teetering out over the lava.

Fear, finally fear, was in Dream’s eyes as his toes, bare of socks or shoes, grappled on the edge of the obsidian. Sam released his hair with one hand and gripped his throat with that hand.

“Sa- Sam,” Dream rasped.

Disgust more potent than anything Sam had ever experienced before washed over him. He felt nothing but pleasure as he let Dream fall, flailing, into the lava.

Twenty seconds later, he respawned, falling from the roof into the corner.

“Unnecessary,” he rasped.

Sam strode forwards and slit his throat. Dream’s body spurted blood and fell to the floor, disintegrating as he respawned.

“Careful,” Dream said, “don’t want to make me lose a canon life.”

Sam slammed the hilt of his axe into Dream’s face. “We both know you won’t lose a canon life,” he snarled, cleaving his axe into the middle of Dream’s forehead.

Dream respawned again. “Got it out of your system yet?”

Sam replied by slicing Dream’s head clean off his shoulders.

“I’ll come back every time, you know,” Dream said, when he respawned.

“I know,” Sam said, striking him over the head. “And every time you’ll be a blank canvas.”

After the next three deaths, Sam started slowing down, taking his time. He… liked… making Dream suffer, atone for his actions. The conscience inside him screamed, but he stuffed it down. He could deal with the sickness at his own actions later.

“Tired yet?” Dream asked, after suffocating for the second time.

“Yes, actually,” Sam replied, stalking towards Dream, who was sitting up in the corner. To his utter satisfaction, the man flinched away as he approached.

Carefully, Sam undid his gauntlet, placing it into his inventory. He raised his bare hand up, and Dream covered his face with his hand. Sam felt his face twist in joy, and waited until Dream lowered his arm to punch him straight in the nose. Blood was all over the cell, every drop Dream’s.

With the blunt metal end of his axe, the part affixing the blade to the handle, Sam slammed into Dream’s ribs, hearing a sickening crack. Dream fell to the floor, clutching them. As he did, Sam punched him twice more, once in the eye, one in the mouth. The first split his eyebrow and left him with what would surely become a black eye. The second left him with a cut lip and another bruise.

Groaning in pain, Dream remained motionless on the floor.

“Finally given up?” Sam asked, “finally feeling the pain of what you have done to others?”

Dream didn’t reply.

Disgusted, Sam turned, intending to leave.

On the floor, Dream rasped something, causing Sam to turn around.

“What did you say?” Sam said.

“I said,” Dream repeated, smiling a smile full of blood, “he deserved every bit of what I did to him.”

Roaring in anger, Sam kicked Dream harshly in the abdomen, causing Dream to moan in pain at his jostled rib as Sam kicked him again and again, the obsidian of the floor and walls littering tiny scrapes and cuts all over his body.

Panting, Sam finally stopped. Dream was totally motionless, breathing unsteadily, and leaking blood everywhere. He was probably only barely conscious.

Sam walked off onto the bridge, replacing his gauntlet to cover his bruised and bloodied knuckles. “Ready to cross back,” he said into his communicator, allowing Ant to withdraw the bridge.

As he retreated across the lava, he saw Dream start to move, dragging himself towards the lava, moving only centimetres.

Sneering in disgust, he walked over and pulled a different lever. It raised the bars separating the main cell from the lava, which was now slowly falling again. Dream would find no reprise in respawning.

“Are you OK?” Ant asked, “what happened?”

Sam released a shaky breath, a little horrified at how far he had gone. “Dream…” His voice cracked.

Ant put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, carefully avoiding the patches of Dream’s blood. “What? Where’s Tommy?”

“Dream killed him,” Sam whispered. “I’m gonna have to tell everybody that Tommy is dead.”

Carefully, Ant pulled him into a hug, allowing Sam to sob onto his shoulder.

Sam would find no sleep tonight, both because of Tommy’s death, and the fear of how unhinged he had become in punishing it.

* * *

Back in the main cell, Dream rasped out shaky breath after shaky breath, unable to move. His cuts were closing, but he hurt everywhere. For an hour or more, he did nothing but lie there.

 _Fuck_ , he thought. As soon as he realised Sam had heard him kill Tommy, he knew he was going to get beaten, but he hadn’t expected to this extent. He also hadn’t expected Sam to be so defensive or protective over Tommy. Well this day was just full of surprises.

Finally, he gained enough energy to sit up, even a little bit. He glanced at the cauldron, wondering if there was enough water to drown himself in. There wasn’t. The pipe feeding into the cauldron was just dripping into a tiny puddle, no more than half a centimetre deep.

And with the bars up… he would have to explain his wounds to Tommy somehow. At least the boy was dim, and easily manipulated. It shouldn’t be hard to convince the boy that he had done this defending himself.

He half-limped, half-dragged his body over to where Tommy had died. His ghost would still be in this position for a few hours yet, albeit totally invisible. Then his ghost would start moving, wandering around the places familiar to him, until he either moved on and stayed there, or woke up somewhere he didn’t remember dying and found himself translucent and hollow.

At least, that was as far as Dream knew.

It was easy to detect the invisible, newly dead bodies if you had the right equipment and knew what to look for, but where the ghost was mentally, Dream had no idea. He guessed there was an “after”, and then the ghost decided if they would stay or move on, and if they moved on their residual body would dissipate.

And if they stayed they had no memory of that period of time, or their own death. They were just…a shell. Ghostbur was really the perfect example.

Dream held his hand out over the obsidian where Tommy’s body had lain. It started to glow green, symbols and words in another language etched onto his skin.

He smiled to himself. Yes, he had been prepared in bringing the resurrection book with him, not that anyone had known. It didn’t take much to exclude the runes from the injuries that would heal every time he respawned.

Concentrating even harder, Tommy’s body started to manifest, first becoming visible, and then hardening until he was completely corporeal.

Thoroughly exhausted and in pain, Dream relaxed backwards, sitting leaning on the cauldron and the wall. In his experiments it took a few hours to a day for them to wake up. He groaned, clutching his ribs even tighter and let himself just feel the pain for a moment. If he had just waited a little longer to kill Tommy, the Sam wouldn’t have been poking around in the redstone in the walls, and wouldn’t have heard him…

Aww crap. Sam wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks now that he had no reason to come back and get Tommy. There would be some potatoes in the chest but not enough for both for two weeks. Well, Dream could always starve to death. Wouldn’t be the first time.

The real problem would be convincing Tommy that two or even three weeks was only one week. He wanted Tommy to think he had been abandoned. Shouldn’t be too hard, anyways. Time did tend to lose meaning in this wretched place.

He allowed himself to drift off. He awoke, with no idea how long he had slept, except that Tommy was still unconscious. It wasn’t long – or maybe it was – before the boy was awake and swearing.

And, once again, totally dependant on Dream. While the boy slept, he allowed himself to smile, full of cunning and plans. He’d missed this.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo maybe I like Dream getting beat up. What about it?
> 
> Plssss leave comments and ideas,,,, love to hear all y'all thoughts!


End file.
